*Writing-wise, nothing comes
straight to mind, however, I have a strong lack-of-understanding how people can
make choices, especially really big ones, without consciously checking
information for themselves.

Favorite
quote?

"You may never know what results
come of your action, but if you do nothing there will be no result.” ~ Mahatma
Gandhi

Love that. :) What’s
your ideal day like?

*My ideal day would consist of me
dropping the Chipmunk off to school and running up to the mall to get in a good
early morning thirty minute powerwalk. A
shower afterwards would be a must to get the sweat gone. Then I’d spend the day hopping around to
blogs, writing and more writing. After
picking the Chipmunk up from school, it would be homework time and “spend a
little time bonding with my Chipmunk” time.
Bedtime and prayer time with Chipmunk would usher in another hour or two
where I would read a book until sleep claimed me. Not exactly exciting, but if I didn’t have my
day gig in the way, what I mentioned here would be my ideal day.

Sounds lovely. If
you could live out any fantasy, what would you do?

*This is probably the hardest
question. Maybe I could get caught up in a fantasy randomizer machine that
tosses me into situations where I was guaranteed to have Idris Elba, Johnny
Depp and Daniel Dae Kim in every fantasy, whether we were playing at pirates
stealing the ultimate treasure, perhaps one with me as the queen and the three
of them as my faithful guards, or our own lost in paradise fantasy.

I like the way you think! Beethoven,
Beatles, Foo Fighters or Keith Urban (what types of music makes you rock out)?

*I rock out to Linkin Park and
Evanescence, relax and refresh my mood to neo soul like Jill Scott and Anthony
Hamilton and find my center with various classical songs. I have a particular penchant for flamenco
like Gypsy Kings and Jessie Cook.

Does
music influence your writing? Do you have a music playlist for your book?

*Adele’s “Set fire to the rain” was
the inspiration for my 2012
A to Z blogging challenge that turned into my Abby and Basil blog opera
which morphed into the novel Neverlove. But I don’t have a playlist for my book,
though I mention a song by Linkin Park in the book.

Which
of your characters would you most/least to hang out with, and why?

*I would enjoy hanging out with
Abby. She’s been through a few things
and she loves to read like I do. We’d
probably have tons to discuss. The one I
would least like to hang around with is Walter.
He’s just so full of himself, ugh!

While
creating your books, what was one of the most surprising things you learned?

*I learned I liked writing up the
villain more than I cared to admit.
Don’t want to psycho-analyze that, though. It could mean something and I’d rather remain
blissful in my ignorance J

It's fun the explore the dark side! Where
can readers find out more about you?

For
seventeen-year-old Abigail, one rash decision leads to an unexpected chance for
redemption. At V'Salicus Academy, a unique institute where she trains to become
an agent of heaven, she struggles with the pain of her past, the changes of the
present and accepts a loveless future until her path – and heart – crosses with
Basil’s.

Basil's off-chance slip of the tongue binds him
to a life of servitude to the Devourer, the master of hell. His existence has
no upside until a chance meeting with Abigail brings new perspective.

Keeping the truth of their present lives from
each other brings disaster when secrets are brought to light and the life of
Abigail’s mentor is put on the line.

Can Abigail and Basil save her mentor and
salvage their love amid the chaos? Or will they lose it all, destined forever
to NEVERLOVE?

Excerpt:

Minutes
passed to an hour when Abigail finally sank into her parents’ claw foot tub. Steam
rose in white, smoky wisps from the water’s surface. Stinging warmth seeped
into her skin, her pores taunted open by the heat. Just the thing to cleanse
her father from her system. Release the filth of his still-lingering touch. Not
that it would matter soon. After last night, she’d made up her mind. Seventeen
wasn’t such a bad age to die.

Abigail
cast a glance toward the bathroom floor. Ripped pieces of her mother’s
stationary littered every inch, her failed attempts to come up with a poetic
message, something meaningful to leave behind. The lace edging of each pink scrap curled from
the steam, pitiful imitations of rose petals. Her tired gaze slid up to the
mirror where her final words stood out bold in her favorite shade of dark red: